


Pink-Cheeked

by brideofquiet



Series: What's for Dessert? [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bathtubs, Established Relationship, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Spanking, Valentine's Day, also blink and you miss it but:, and the various trials and tribulations therein, the three classic elements of love truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: It takes Steve about three hours to decide: he is going to romance thehellout of Bucky Barnes this Valentine’s Day.





	Pink-Cheeked

**Author's Note:**

> As this series' author I kind of recommend you read the other parts, but if you're good at context clues you probably don't have to.

Steve Rogers walks through the doors of the Walgreens on an innocent Saturday afternoon, nose buried in a news article on his phone. He’s been here so many times picking up various prescriptions and more lube that he doesn’t need to look; he knows where all the displays are.

At least he thinks he does. Walgreens has pulled a fast one on him before—he should know better than to think it wouldn’t clobber him over the head again.

He slides his phone into his pocket, looks up, and stops short.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

A laugh draws his attention to the left. The cashier’s face is split by a grin. “Forgot about it, huh?”

 _Forgot_ is a strong word. Steve is not forgetful, but he does tend to purposefully and studiously ignore certain things. Certain things being the godawful commercial blight-on-the-tip-of-the-nose of the yearly holiday calendar. Like, massive throbbing pimple. The pink and red practically screams at him from the display. An entire aisle crammed to the teeth with hearts of all sizes gapes at him like an open wound in the middle of the store, all bloody red and garish. He’s mixing metaphors—wound or zit, Steve, pick one—but either way it makes him feel slightly ill.

Though that may be less to do with the display itself than the fact that Steve, in all honesty, actually had completely fucking forgotten that it’s February 2.

Valentine’s Day is less than two weeks away, and he hasn’t planned a thing.

Steve hates Valentine’s Day. It’s clearly just a money grab—one of the top five greatest marketing schemes of all time. People shouldn’t need a specific day to show someone that they love them, least of all of day that has no actual significance in the context of their relationship. An anniversary, sure, celebrate the hell out of it. But some random weekday in February celebrating some random saint from 2,000 years ago doesn’t exactly scream _romance_ to Steve, even if Saint Valentine was the patron of love. _I’m taking you on a date because the supposed heavenly advocate for love allegedly got commemorated on this day two eons ago_ is a weird excuse for a holiday.

Maybe that’s Steve’s lapsed Catholic speaking, but he still thinks it’s dumb.

Bucky, on the other hand, eats this kind of shit up like cake. He would never say as much, but Steve remembers how many Hallmark movies Bucky had watched while Steve was neck-deep in a school project and too busy to go out with him last year. They’d made up for it that weekend with a nice dinner at some bougie place in Park Slope, and Steve had quietly praised his professor for the assignment that caused them to avoid the worst of the crowds.

But now he’s graduated, and temping in an office part-time while he tries to get his feet under himself in a freelance career, so his schedule is fairly flexible. Bucky’s is so consistent it’s almost boring: 9 to 5 at Stark Industries, Monday through Friday. They have time for a proper Valentine’s Day. Which means Bucky is probably two months deep into planning something, and Steve is going to look like an asshole if all he shows up with is a hastily chosen card from the holiday section of the Walgreens greeting card aisle.

“Fuck,” Steve repeats, and the cashier laughs at him again as he wanders off to pick up his prescriptions.

 

 

It takes Steve about three hours to decide: he is going to romance the _hell_ out of Bucky Barnes this Valentine’s Day.

His own opinions on the holiday be damned, he knows it’s important to Bucky. And that’s enough to make it important to Steve, because love may be stupid and possibly fake, but he’s very much in it with Bucky.

Love. Christ. He kind of hopes he never gets over the way even just thinking about the concept of it flips his stomach right over like a pancake.

“So,” Steve says on Monday morning, while he’s smoothing sunscreen onto his face and Bucky’s futzing with his hair in the mirror, “you free next Thursday?”

“Am I… free?” Bucky asks, only half-paying attention. Steve watches him do the mental math, and something brief and joyful flickers over his face. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just asking.” Steve winks at him in the mirror. “Keep it that way, huh?”

“Of course,” Bucky says around a smile. “Always, babe.”

So maybe he hadn’t been planning anything—that or he’s willing to drop whatever it was just to see what Steve has up his sleeve. Which means Steve needs to like, actually shove something up his sleeve, pronto. A whole dove? No, no, Bucky doesn’t like birds. Shit.

 

 

Every restaurant in the entire five boroughs is booked solid for February 14. Except, like, McDonald’s. Could he make that cute? Like in a kitschy ironic way? If he got a tablecloth, maybe some flowers…

No. The fluorescent lights, and also the debilitating stomach pain fast food tends to give Steve, would definitely ruin it.

Double shit.

 

 

Bucky’s a better cook. Steve could try, and Bucky would eat whatever he made because he’s the most considerate human being who’s ever set foot on this lowly planet, but his skills just aren’t up to holiday standard. Weekday grilled cheeses, sure. But he cannot cook like, chicken cordon bleu or whatever other fancy thing people eat on Valentine’s Day. Shit, shit, shit. Could he get like, a meal kit? Hello Blue Basket? Is that a cop-out or would Bucky appreciate any kind of effort at all? What about dessert?

The panic starts to set in sometime around Thursday, a week out. He starts outsourcing ideas. A quick internet search supplies a barrage of ridiculousness: _Take a class in chocolate making together! Read poetry aloud to each other over wine! Roller skate backwards down the BQE while holding hands!_

All of it sounds forced and inorganic—or maybe Steve just hates fun. Despite himself he makes a few calls to the suggested places, wondering if his allergies could even handle a flower arranging class, but everything is either full or way too expensive.

Natasha and Sam are no help at all; they’ve had a weekend getaway booked since October. Of fucking course they have. Steve asks if they can upgrade their room to a double.

“A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine, Steve,” Natasha says, before promptly hanging up on him.

Remember when Natasha used to give him entire pies for barely any reason at all? Those were the goddamn days. Long-term relationships ruin everything.

 

 

Bucky is trying not to be curious. Steve can see it on his face. It’s Saturday morning, Steve thinks he has a mix for a plan even if it’s not in the oven yet, and Bucky is truly endeavoring not to stick his nose directly in Steve’s face about the whole thing. It’s a valiant effort, if a paltry one. They’re sitting on the couch, knee-deep in season three of _The Good Wife,_ but Bucky keeps sneaking glances at Steve instead of paying attention to the trials and tribulations of Alicia Florrick.

“Bucky, what,” Steve says from where he’s tucked against the arm of the couch, his ever-cold feet wedged snugly under Bucky’s thighs.

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and flicks his gaze back to the TV.

“Bullshit. Do you even know what this episode is about?”

“Uh, she’s a wife… and she’s good?”

 _“Oh_ my God. Just spit it out, whatever it is.”

Bucky hums and haws, smoothing the blanket that’s covering both of them. He doesn’t want to ask because he doesn’t want to ruin his surprise. It’d be goddamned adorable if it wasn’t so annoying.

Or maybe it’s both. Two things can be true at the same time.

“Thursday,” Bucky says.

“Uh huh.”

“Is Valentine’s Day.”

“I’m well aware, sugar.”

“Are we doing something this year?”

“You want to, don’t you?”

Bucky nods and bites his lip—which is unfair, because he knows exactly what that does to Steve. There’s no way he’s doing it unintentionally either. But Steve turns resolutely back to the TV and does not give up the gun.

“Then you bet your butt,” he says. “You’ll be home your usual time? Around six?”

“I can try to leave a little earlier, if I need to.”

“That’d be perfect.”

“Are we going out?”

“Nuh uh. Don’t ask me questions, Barnes, that negates the point.”

Bucky huffs in mock protest, squirming happily on the couch. He’s the dweeb to end all dweebs, and Steve is halfway sitting up to tackle him when Bucky grabs him by the calves and drags up across the couch till his butt hits Bucky’s legs.

 _“Bucky,_ Jesus—”

He doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. The TV still humming in the background, Bucky bends over him and catches Steve’s mouth with his own. It’s a sweet kiss, relaxed but full of promise. Neither of them have anywhere to be today, and as Steve draws Bucky more properly on top of him, he thinks they’re not likely to stray within three feet of this couch for a while yet.

He has time to plan. Bucky loves him, mumbles it into his skin right there like it’s a plain fact. The sky is blue, Bucky Barnes loves Steve Rogers, and Steve is going to give them the perfect Valentine’s Day if he dies trying.

 

 

It’s not that Steve isn’t romantic, or doesn’t know how to express his feelings. Hell, he’d been the one to say “I love you” first—about two months in, feet braced, almost aggressive about it like he was daring Bucky to challenge the truth of his words.

And of course, Bucky hadn’t. He’d swept Steve into an embrace and told him of course he loved him too, and then they’d kissed until they were both aching for it and Bucky had fucked him so slow it almost hurt.

Bucky knows how Steve feels—about him, and about practically everything else on the planet, because Steve is opinionated and never learned how to shut up.

But Bucky certainly has an easier time saying, point blank, that Steve turns him into a pile of goop—for instance. Not even the fun goop, just the schmoopy love kind. Steve chalks it up to Bucky having grown up in a stable home with two parents committed to one another, or maybe the Judaism. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t get nervous sometimes, that he never fears his own feelings—he just rarely lets that stop him from speaking up about them anyway. It’s one of Bucky’s most loveable qualities, his heart not quite on his sleeve but definitely pinned to the waistband of his underwear, easy enough to find. His other loveable qualities include the freckle on the shell of his left ear and the way his laugh gets all squeaky when they stay up too late watching _Cheers_ reruns.

Steve’s heart gets that “God I’m so full why did I just eat all that” feeling simply thinking about him sometimes. It’s hard for him to talk about it in such obvious turns, but he hopes he conveys it well enough in action—fixing Bucky’s coffee just how he likes it every morning, holding his hand most of the night when they go out, listening with genuine interest while Bucky spouts technical jargon about his latest project at work, buying more shirts in royal blue just because Bucky likes him in that color.

Love like that—it’s well worth celebrating. Money grab or not, _Bucky_ is worth celebrating.

With that in mind, on Steve’s Tuesday off, he gets down to planning.

 

 

When their alarm starts bleep-bleeping at too-early o’clock on Thursday, Steve sits up just enough to slap it into submission before collapsing back into the bed. They bought a new mattress a few months ago like real honest-to-God adults, and while it’s been nice for a lot of reasons, the level 10 billion comfort of it makes getting up in the mornings very difficult.

“Five more minutes won’t kill us,” Steve mumbles, face smooshed in the pillow.

“Mm,” Bucky says, which isn’t really a word but Steve takes it as tacit agreement. Bucky wriggles across the mattress toward Steve and slots himself along Steve’s side. His body is warm, pliant when Steve shifts to put his back to Bucky’s chest. His lips press to the nape of Steve’s neck, not really a kiss, just another point of connection. “Did you hit snooze or turn it off?” he slurs.

“Off.”

“Steve,” Bucky whines.

“Don’t fall back asleep.”

Bucky mumbles something unintelligible and stretches his legs out, already preparing to haul himself out of the sheets. But before he does, he tightens his arms around Steve’s waist and asks, “Will you tell me my surprise now?”

Steve snorts. “Nope.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

“You’re gonna find out soon enough.”

“How soon?”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, but he’s smiling when he twists around to shove Bucky toward the edge of the bed. “Go take a shower.”

“How thorough a shower?”

_“Go.”_

 

Steve makes it into the office half an hour early and works through lunch so he can leave early and beat Bucky home. That’s not hard even on a normal day, with Steve’s office only a few stops from their neighborhood while Bucky’s is all the way in Midtown. He keys into their apartment a few minutes before four o’clock—plenty of time to get everything ready before Bucky comes home.

The door rattles about an hour later. Steve leaps across the room to hit the dimmer switch in the knick of time. His chest flutters in nervous anticipation.

When Bucky opens the door, he pauses in the threshold, his face lighting up bright enough to make up for the low lighting.

Candles flicker from every surface in the room. The smell is a hodgepodge of conflicting scents, but the effect is perfect. The flames cast their apartment in a buttery glow, enriched by what feels like miles of paper heart garland looping around the room. The soft muzak playing from the stereo ties everything together, transforming their home into something magical.

“Steve,” Bucky says when he spots Steve standing by their tiny kitchen table, more candles and a vase of roses at its center. “You did all this?”

“No, it was the fairies,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. He holds out one hand. “Are you coming inside? We should put those in some water.”

He hadn’t missed the thick bouquet of pink and yellow tulips in Bucky’s hands.

“Yes, yeah, yes.” Bucky hurriedly sheds his coat and hangs it by the door, and then strides across the room with such an intense look on his face that all Steve can do is brace for impact. Bucky catches Steve around the ribs and clutches him to him, burying his face in Steve’s hair. Steve can feel the flowers tickling the nape of his neck.

“Hello to you too,” Steve mumbles, face squished to Bucky’s chest. Not that he minds, but.

Bucky seems to get it together enough to pull back. His smile is so warm it could melt the damn polar ice caps. “Hi. When did you even have time to do this?”

“No, see, it’s less fun if I explain the mystery.”

Steve expects a protest, but Bucky just leans in to kiss him, repeated and quick, still too busy smiling to put much into it. “Best Valentine’s Day ever,” he says.

“You think I’m _done?_ Gee, Buck, if I knew you’d be this easy to please…”

“There’s more?”

“Of course there’s more. What do you think this is, amateur hour?”

“What else is there?”

Steve takes Bucky by the shoulders and guides him to sit at the table. “We eat first,” he says.

“You know how I love that.”

Steve laughs, and kisses the freckle on his ear. He takes the tulips when Bucky offers them up. “These are beautiful, thank you,” he murmurs as he searches for a glass put them in.

When he comes back with a single plate in one hand, flowers in the other, Bucky raises his eyebrows in question.

“One plate?” he asks.

“Well.” Steve sets the plate of spaghetti down between them, fitting the tulips next to the roses. “I figured I should stick to something I know I can pull off, so—we’re doing _Lady and the Tramp,_ for added flair.”

They eat with their ankles laced under the table, talking about their days between bites of food. The movie moment never quite manifests itself organically, so Bucky picks up a piece of pasta between his fingers and takes one end in his mouth while Steve takes the other. If they’re laughing too hard to kiss properly when they meet in the middle, that’s okay. They swallow and try again, Bucky standing up so he can deepen the kiss.

“Dinner, check,” he says against Steve’s mouth. “What’s next? Dessert?”

“Define dessert.”

“Um…”

“Come on,” Steve says, standing up too and taking Bucky by the hand.

Their room is candlelit too, one lamp on because Steve ran out of candles. There’s a towel spread out in the center of the bed, rose petals scattered at its edges. Steve had wondered if the flower petals were too much—too obvious—but Bucky wanders toward the bed and picks one up. He rubs it between his fingers, feeling its silky texture, before holding it up to his nose to smell. When he opens his eyes, his pupils have blown wide.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

“Take your clothes off,” Steve says, “and lie down on your stomach for me.”

Bucky hands drop to his belt immediately. His hands are steady when they undo the buckle and slide the leather free of its loops. Steve leans against the wall and watches while Bucky slowly strips, not putting on a show but certainly not hurrying. His skin is covered in chill bumps, but the room is warm. It must be Steve’s eyes on him causing that. He isn’t hard, but the flush in his cheeks says that’s lack of time, not lack of arousal. Christ if he isn’t the sexiest thing Steve’s ever witnessed.

Bucky climbs onto the bed and lowers himself into a sprawl on top of the towel. “Like this?” he asks, craning his neck to find Steve again.

“Perfect,” Steve tells him and pulls his own shirt over his head. He settles himself on the bed, straddling Bucky’s thighs, and leans forward to kiss his shoulder. “Welcome to the Steve Rogers Day Spa, we hope your stay is pleasurable.”

Bucky snorts. “Oh my God.”

Steve pinches his hip in retaliation. “Do you want a massage or not, asshole?”

“I’m sorry, yes, please, you’re a dork, please touch me.”

Steve bites his shoulder for good measure, drawing a yelp out of him. Serves him right, making fun of Steve when he’s trying to be sexy. Steve reaches for the oil on the nightstand and uncaps it. They’ve done this before—massages. Steve’s back is crooked as a mountain road, which causes problems for his other joints, which means he’s sore more days than he isn’t. And Bucky spends most of his workday hunched over a lab table. But a backrub on the couch while they catch up on _The Good Place_ isn’t quite the same thing. They’ve never been this deliberate about it, Steve thinks as he pours oil along the divot of Bucky’s spine.

Steve starts with the base of his neck, working the heel of his palms in until Bucky is sighing. His body, already relaxed, slowly melts into the sheets until Steve wonders if he’s putting him to sleep. The lower Steve makes it down his spine, the louder Bucky gets. He outright moans when Steve dugs his thumbs into his tailbone. Any last tension Bucky carried sloughs of him. He’s completely boneless when Steve starts running his hands up and down his back, shoulders to hips, even lower to grab handfuls of his ass and massage that too.

“I like your hands,” Bucky mumbles while Steve kneads at the place where Bucky’s thighs joins with the meat of his ass.

“I know you do,” Steve murmurs. He works his way down Bucky’s legs, the hair catching between his fingers, his focus singular. He likes this—having his hands all over Bucky, caring for his body so thoroughly, as intimate as sex. He’s hard in his pants, and from the way Bucky is shifting his hips he’s properly aroused now too, but neither of them make a move to do anything about it. That comes later. Much later, because Steve still has many steps left to his master plan.

“Okay,” he says, planting his hands on either side of Bucky’s ribs to hover over him, close enough to speak in his ear again. “You lie here a while, I’m going to run us a bath.”

“Bath?” Bucky says blurrily.

“I said spa. You’re getting the full treatment, sugar.”

Steve returns for him ten minutes later, naked himself now. Bucky won’t leave the bed till Steve kisses him, and Steve has to remind him the water’s going to go cold if they linger too long. With a put-upon huff, he follows Steve into the bathroom and tries to step directly into the bath.

“Hang on,” Steve says and grabs a bowl from the counter, holding it out to Bucky.

Bucky’s nose scrunches. “What is that, oatmeal?”

“An oatmeal mask. For our faces. I made it myself.”

“Gross. Let’s do it.”

They smear each other’s faces in oatmeal goop and, after they’re done laughing at each other, climb into the bath. The tub really isn’t big enough to hold the both of them, but they make it work. Steve tucks himself between Bucky’s spread legs, lying back against his chest. The water is the perfect almost-too-hot temperature. Steam swirls from its surface and envelops them in its cloud. Steve tips his head back to rest against Bucky’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Bucky’s hands rov over his skin under the water, just touching to touch. Steve can feel Bucky’s cock along his spine, but for now, they’re both content to just enjoy the water.

“Thank you for this,” Bucky says.

“Made a sugar scrub too.” Steve points to the lip of the bath. “‘S’lavender.”

“Mm. That sounds nice.”

“The Steve Rogers Day Spa is nice as hell.”

Bucky kisses his temple, a clean spot where there’s no oatmeal. “Yeah, it is.”

“I thought about taking you out,” Steve says, trailing his fingers over the thick, silvery scars on Bucky’s left arm. He says he can’t feel it but that he likes it when Steve touches him there anyway. “But I decided I just wanted you to myself tonight. Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Bucky, will you be my valentine?”

Bucky laughs all soft and squeaky, and the sound of it resonates in Steve’s chest like bells. “Yes, Steve. I’m your valentine if you’re mine.”

“Of course I’m your valentine,” Steve mumbles, and if he falls asleep for a few minutes cradled by Bucky’s body, it doesn’t matter, because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now.

They lie there till the water grows cold.

 

The bed springs squeal when Bucky vaults onto the mattress, all eager smiles. The rose petals flutter and resettle around him; their spots of color match the ones in Bucky’s cheeks. “Okay, okay, let’s do it,” he says and reaches for Steve to pull him down after him.

Steve laughs and smacks his hands away. “Jesus, you’re a horndog, _wait.”_

“Been waiting.”

“Don’t you want your present?”

That shuts him up. Bucky raises an eyebrow curiously. “I get a present too?”

“Haven’t you ever celebrated this holiday? Gee.”

Inside their closet, Steve finds the small bag. It’s bright red with black lace trim—fancy, sexy. If bags can have sex appeal, anyway. When he turns back to the room, Bucky has settled against the pillows, his towel-dried hair fanning over the fabric like the world’s worst halo. Steve climbs onto the bed and settles cross-legged by Bucky’s hips, then hands him the bag.

The tissue paper crinkles between his fingers. “No, actually,” he says, all casual as he pulls the paper free.

“What do you mean, no?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve never been dating anyone this time of year till you.” He balls the tissue paper up and lobs it at Steve’s chest.

Steve was probably supposed to catch that, but he just lets it bounce off him and roll to the floor. “So this is your…?”

“This is my first Valentine’s Day. Like officially.”

“Oh. Well. Mine, too.”

Bucky smiles wonderingly. “Really?”

“Really. Now open your present sometime before I die.”

Chuckling, Bucky frees the rest of the tissue paper and dips his hand inside. The first item he pulls out makes his eyes pop wide. “Oh my God, _Steve.”_

“What?”

“I thought this was gonna be like, chocolates.”

“It’s how we met, remember? The internet says callback gifts are very sweet.”

“Hm. Sweet. Okay.”

Bucky waves the set of hot pink, heart-shaped anal beads under Steve’s nose, then sets them aside. His expression wary now, he dips his hand back into the bag and, one by one, removes more Valentine’s Day-themed sex toys.

“Where do you even find this shit,” he mutters, but the flush in his face has grown darker. Steve keeps one eye on Bucky’s dick at basically all times, especially when he’s naked, and now Steve can see it starting to thicken again as Bucky peers at a bottle of rose-flavored lube.

“There’s a surprisingly large market for this kind of stuff,” Steve says. “In case you haven’t noticed, people love Valentine’s Day.”

“Do you want to use… all of them?” Bucky asks, his voice breathy.

“How about you pick one?”

Bucky turns the bag over and shakes it, to be sure he’s gotten everything out. One last item falls into his lap with a soft _smack._ “Oh,” he says quietly. His fingers smooth over it tentatively.

“That one’s a—well, not a joke, but it’s not…” He trails off, mouth gone curiously dry as he watches Bucky inspect the small, heart-shaped paddle cradled in his hands. It’s a delicate shade of pink, padded, about the size of a ping-pong paddle. “We don’t have to…”

“Can we?” Bucky asks, bright eyes meeting Steve’s. “Try it? Please?”

Sometimes Steve likes to smack Bucky around in bed, and Bucky dies for it when he does, revels in the pink marks Steve’s hands leave on the soft skin of his behind. But that’s as far as it’s gone—hands, light spanking. Steve hadn’t really considered it when he’d dropped the paddle into his basket. He’d thought it was pretty. Maybe they would play ping pong with it, if they ever decide to like ping pong.

But Bucky has picked it up now, holding it to his chest. He scrapes the edge over his nipple and whines faintly, high in his throat. His nipple hardens and peaks as Steve watches, mesmerized.

“Steve?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Steve says. He nods, shifting onto his knees, and reaches for the paddle. “Yes, fuck yes, we’ll try it. Turn over, sugar, on your stomach again for me.”

Bucky’s knees knock into Steve’s with how quickly he rushes to comply. His arms fold underneath his chin, and he grips lightly at his elbows, bracing as he angles his hips in just the right way. His ass is smooth and perfect, dusted with hair—and all Steve’s.

Steve can’t help but to lean in and bite the curve.

“Hey!” Bucky yelps.

“Oh, come you, if you can’t handle that much,” Steve says, not bothering with the rest the sentence. His runs his hands along Bucky’s spine, urging him to relax. His skin is scrubbed pink and ridiculously soft from the bath. Steve plants one hand to move in closer, drawing his nose in slow circles over the dimples in Bucky’s back. He smells like fresh lavender, a sharp undercurrent of lemon. Steve licks him across the base of his spine, just to taste. The sweetness lingers on his tongue.

“Do you want my hands first?” he asks. “Warm you up a little?”

“Please, yes.”

“Stay just like this for me, baby.”

Steve sits back on his heels and takes a moment just to look at him, spread out over their bed and just barely writhing. He wants it so bad—wants _Steve_ so bad. They don’t always play like this, with Steve in charge. Half the time they’re both too tired from work for much more than a blowjob before bed. But when they do find the time for this, when Bucky initiates it with soft questions or Steve grabs him a little rough and watches his eyes darken, it’s always special. Steve never imagined someone would trust him this much, love him enough to want him this way. That heady sense of responsibility is enough to make his dick throb—but he has things to attend to before he pays himself any mind.

Things being, namely, Bucky’s beautiful ass.

He starts slow, just his loose palms. The little _smack_ of skin on skin seems to ring in the otherwise quiet room. Bucky’s breath hitches and slides as each impact falls against him, but he stays relaxed like Steve asked him to.

Steve lays his hand down a little harder on the next one.

Bucky chokes down a gasp and buries his face in his arms.

“Good?” Steve asks.

Bucky whines and nods, fumbling out a _yes_ in the middle. That’s enough for Steve to keep going. It’s less of a warm-up now, and Bucky’s having trouble staying still. He shifts forward and back like he can’t decide what he wants more: to escape the barrage or take more.

Steve’s palms are stinging by the time he’s turned Bucky’s behind a delectable shade of pink. He glides the back of his hands over it just to feel the faintly radiating heat, then digs his knuckles in to soothe the muscle that’s gone tense again. Bucky groans and tightens his fists in the sheets, but he presses back into Steve’s touch.

“Do you still want the paddle?” Steve asks, still kneading catlike at his flesh.

“Please,” Bucky breathes.

“Sit up a minute, kiss me first.”

Bucky eases off the bed enough for Steve to take him by the jaw and seal their mouths together. The candles are burning low by now, strong-smelling as ever. Steve had saved the richer scents for their room—the honey and vanilla and spice. Their bed is decadent and warm enveloped by all that, but Bucky’s mouth is sweeter. Steve kisses him longer than he means too, wrapped up in it.

“Ready?” he says, lips wet.

Bucky doesn’t answer, just lies back down and breathes.

“You don’t like it, you tell me,” Steve reminds him. He reaches for the paddle on the nightstand. It’s light in his hand, the color and shape of it oddly innocent, like a girl’s hairbrush. He smacks himself on the top of the thigh a few times to get an understanding of it. The impact stings pleasantly, then fades to a soft burn not unlike the candle flames.

Steve smooths his free hand up Bucky’s thigh and asks, “Do you want a count?”

“Mm. Yes.”

“How many, sugar? It’s your present.” Bucky debates too long; Steve swats him on the ass. “How many, Bucky?”

“Ten,” he gasps.

“Good, classic. I’ll count, you relax.”

He starts gently enough—a love tap. Bucky hums, his feet flexing, as Steve says, “That’s one.”

The next smack comes down harder, right across the center of Bucky’s ass. The connection makes a loud _pop._ A red mark blooms on Bucky’s skin, vaguely recognizable as a heart. Steve swallows, counts, and gives him another.

By the time they make it ten, sweat has pooled in the dip of Bucky’s back. His shoulders are trembling but still loose. He’s kept all his tension in his hands, knotted deep in the quilt on their bed. His ass is cherry red and just as tempting, the faint top curve of a heart still visible in a few places. Steve hopes he bruises like that.

Tenderly, he covers Bucky’s hands with his own and pries them loose. “We’re done, baby,” he says, and drops a kiss to his elbow. “You did good.”

Bucky turns his head to look at him, and his face is as flushed as his ass. All that red makes his blue eyes stand out sharp as diamonds. “Steve,” he whines.

“What? I know, I know, be patient.” Steve opens the nightstand drawer and finds the thick lotion he keeps there for his dry hands; it works just as well for this. He pumps some into his hands, warming it up before setting his palms to Bucky’s behind, this time with much gentler intentions. He’s sure to rub every last bit of the lotion in.

When he’s done, Bucky turns over, still hazy around the eyes. “Hi,” he says.

Steve laughs brightly. “Hey, valentine. How you doing?”

“Great. Will you fuck me?”

“Wow, what charm.”

“C’mon.” Bucky grabs at the back of Steve’s neck to bring him closer. “Want it so bad, Steve,” he says before kissing Steve with his mouth half open. Steve pushes at his shoulder, coaxing him to lie back—and Bucky must have forgotten somehow, because he goes down hard and yells into Steve’s mouth.

“Jesus, Bucky, careful!”

 _“Fuck,”_ he groans.

“That bad?”

“You just _wailed_ on me, yeah it’s bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” Bucky presses his thumb to Steve’s lips. “No, I’m fine, I just… I wanted it like this.” He hooks his ankle around Steve’s thigh, making his intentions clear.

“Oh.” Steve grins. “You sap.”

“It’s literally Valentine’s Day, if I’m allowed any day—”

“I’m kidding, gee, okay—we can make this work. Just be fuckin gentle when you lie down, would you?”

Steve helps him situate on the mattress, fitting a pillow under his hips for the extra support and comfort. Bucky’s legs splay out wide and welcoming. Steve kisses his knobby knee, bites his thigh, and skims his hand down his leg to grip his cock.

“Can you reach the lube?” he asks, and it hits him in the calf before the question is even all the way out. He doesn’t bother to make fun of Bucky for that, too worked up now to tease him any more than is pleasurable. The smell of rose hardly registers amidst everything else when he pops the cap. Steve coats his fingers and slides one inside Bucky, slick and easy. That bath had done wonders to relax them both. He’d feel almost lethargic working his fingers in and out of Bucky’s body, if it weren’t for the fluttering thump of his heart.

He wipes his fingers on the towel and settles on top of Bucky. That’s one nice thing, when they do it this way—he’s light enough that he can rest his full weight on Bucky without bothering him, so they’re pressed together, two lines smoothing into one.

Bucky hikes his knees higher and reaches between them to guide Steve inside himself. Lights pop bright behind Steve’s eyelids at the sensation. Bucky’s body swathes him, arms and legged locked, his hole clutching as Steve drive deeper till he hits home. Steve presses their foreheads together, and Bucky pants into his open mouth when Steve pulls back and snaps his hips forward.

Neither of them are going to last long, but that’s okay. Bucky wants to kiss him but just can’t keep it up around his own groans. His head falls back against the pillows, eyes closing, while his hands dig hard into the backs of Steve’s thighs. Steve rocks into him again and again. The quiet slap of their skin is an echo of what came before it.

Steve’s heart swells, and the rest of his body follows. He slips free of Bucky just in time to spill all over Bucky’s flushed cock. He loses his vision for an instant, his forehead pressing hard to Bucky’s shoulder. When he’s done he props himself up just enough to watch between their bodies as Bucky slicks his dick with Steve’s come and then adds his own to the mess.

“Holy Christ,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve smiles and kisses his collarbone before sliding off him. Bucky doesn’t let him go very far, but Steve doesn’t mind. They tangle together on their sides, Bucky hooking his chin over Steve’s head while they regain their breath. Steve’s insides feels like the precise temperature of the inside of one of those molten lava cakes—gooey and warm. He presses his lips to Bucky’s sweat-slick neck and leaves them there, totally content.

Okay, so, maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t the worst holiday ever invented. He can sort of see the appeal. The appeal is mostly just Bucky, but Steve supposes that’s kind of the point. A whole day set aside to remind each other and themselves how much they love each other, half the world doing just the same—right now Steve can’t even find it in himself that think that’s gross. It’s just sort of beautiful.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, lifting a hand to wave at the room. “This was perfect.”

“Have you ever thought about getting married?” Steve asks.

Bucky pulls back enough to look Steve in the eye. “What? In general, or to you?”

“Either or.”

“Steve,” Bucky says slowly, mouth twisting, “I gotta say, if this is your idea of a proposal…”

Steve’s mouth drops open and he rushes to say, “Oh my God, _no.”_

“Not exactly romantic.”

“What, you don’t feel romantic right now? Covered in sweat and come?”

“I mean, I’ve felt less romantic, to be fair.”

Steve snorts and pulls at his shoulder, encouraging Bucky to drape himself half on top of Steve’s body. They’ll need to clean up soon, probably go to bed because it’s getting late and they have to work in the morning. Steve slides his hand down Bucky’s back to rub soothing circles into Bucky’s ass. Bucky hisses but doesn’t recoil, and Steve stares at the ceiling, thinking about flowers and suits and champagne.

“No,” he says, almost to himself, “no, if I was gonna marry you, I’d want to do it right. The invitations and the cake and the… what’s it called again?”

“The _chuppah?”_ Bucky supplies, reading his mind.

“Yeah, the _chuppah._ Can we do the thing with the chairs too, where they lift us up and dance? That seems fun.”

“You would think that.” Bucky plants his hands on either side of Steve’s shoulders and levers himself up, his face intent. “Steve, are you actually suggesting that we …?”

“No! I mean, not yet. I don’t know?” Steve reaches up to tuck Bucky’s hair, mostly dry now, behind his ears. “Like I said I would want to do it right, and we don’t exactly have that kind of money right now.”

“But you do want to marry me,” Bucky says.

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

A tender smile brightens Bucky’s face. “I take back what I said about not feeling romantic.”

“Oh, you do, huh? Matrimony make you horny, Buck?”

“Don’t ruin it,” Bucky says, already kissing him. “I wanna marry you too, for the record.”

“Mm,” Steve hums against his lips, “good that we agree on that.”

He pulls Bucky down on top of him. It may be getting late, but they have time for another round. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, folks! Come visit me on [tweet time](https://twitter.com/bride_ofquiet) if you please.


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